In 2002, a deaf friend came for a visit and stayed with me in Vancouver. During that time, the roll of film that I had dropped off at the drugstore a few days earlier had been printed and was ready for pick-up. (The excitement of seeing your photo prints has been taken from us since the popularization of digital cameras.) I wasted no time and dragged my guest to the drugstore. We sat on the curb out front to look through the photos, but before I opened the envelope, I warned her that the images were not for the faint of heart.
She’s one my best friends. Surely she’d approach this with an open mind, I thought.
I was able to track Ed’s every move through WhatsApp upon his arrival in Vancouver. His first bite of Canadian food came from Tim Horton’s which is a chain fast food/coffee shop that many Canadians are somehow proud of. Their donuts are mediocre, and their employees are always poorly trained and often are entirely befuddled when it comes to serving deaf customers.
But, a donut is still a donut. When Yann and I find ourselves at Tim Hortons, he already knows my order. When I order myself, though, the cashier usually passes out from the complexity of having to read an order off the screen of a smartphone and requires medical attention. It’s a lot to tolerate just for a glazed chocolate donut.
If nobody showed off, we wouldn’t have pro athletes, artists, or stunt people. The whole point of Instagram is to show off, whether it be your hot bod, hot bowl of ramen, or in my case, the demonic balls of fluff that are my cats.
There is one month of the year when cookie architects get the most attention: this one. December.
When I’m not juggling greasy bike parts, I’m mashing my oily meathooks into gingerbread dough. I design buildings nobody can inhabit, just ingest. And I am good at it.
Without further ado, I shall show off, starting with last year’s saccharine behemoth:
An unexpected side effect of missing a week of work due to injury/being on stupefacient drugs is not knowing what to do with myself.
At the beginning of the week, I was in too much pain to be productive. Along with numbing the pain, the medication I was on was also numbing my cognitive abilities. I even succeed in losing loaf of bread immediately after putting it away someplace odd.
It had been a long time since I’ve managed to get so little done in so much time; however, yesterday I was able to grasp a pencil and rub some graphite into my sketchbook.
I have just concluded my first week back at work post-vacation, but I’m still not finished talking about my vacation.
On Thursday the 19th, I took my gym-loving sister, Jenn, to the gym. Not the kind she usually goes to, but the kind I usually go to. My preferred type of gym has almost entirely padded flooring, and a lot of chalk dust. Jenn is a Crossfitter and, yes, she talks about it a lot but come to think of it, climbers also talk about climbing excessively.
Her being a crossfitter has the family commenting on her burly physique a lot. Dad in particular is strangely interested in the physique of others. He mentioned no less than four times that my brother had gotten really fat, and when I told him that I had visited two of my childhood friends, he asked whether either of them had gotten fat. It did make me wonder how Dad describes my physique.